


a sonnet of cicadas (i guess the world will never know)

by Donatello (jollypuppet)



Series: the chronicles of stiles' sofa [9]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Fluff, Kissing, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Romance, in which the world starts to catch up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-28
Updated: 2012-07-28
Packaged: 2017-11-10 21:34:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/470937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jollypuppet/pseuds/Donatello
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That's why he loves this hill so much. It's the closest to Heaven that he'll ever want to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a sonnet of cicadas (i guess the world will never know)

**Author's Note:**

> More sofa!verse, and here we have lots of emotions. Lots of them. Whole bunch.

The Day, as Stiles calls it, rolls around faster than he expects.

He's not surprised that it snuck up on him, because he never likes thinking about The Day. All his life, he's avoided thinking about it, because who would actually _want_ to? It doesn't make him all that sad anymore, not like it used to, but it does leave him feeling decidedly down, like something just sucked all the air from him and left him to fend for himself.

It's not a good feeling. That's for sure.

But when The Day rolls around, it's _his_ job to normalize things around the house. They've long since stopped doing anything special -- and by special, Stiles means horribly morose -- to make an attempt to remember or whatever, because neither he nor his dad think that it's worth it. So, instead, they just silently visit the grave and then go back to what they were doing, suddenly more exhausted, suddenly less connected.

The Day is the sixteenth of March. The Day is the anniversary of his mother's death.

Stiles hates The Day just as much as anybody would hate thinking about their parent dying, but he knows that both he and his father hate the pity that they get from the few people who know about The Day. They won't say anything -- they've learned already that they shouldn't, under any circumstances -- but their gazes are so heartfelt and _awkward_ , like Stiles and his dad just sit around the house on The Day and don't do anything.

To be honest, he should really stop putting so much emphasis on it, because it's really not that much different from any other day in March. They wake up at the same time, they eat the same breakfast, Stiles' dad watches the news and chuckles about the local dog pageant or something like that, and Stiles texts Scott from the sofa about who would win in a fight between Lex Luthor and a giant Care Bear.

At some point, his dad will ask him to wash the dishes, and Stiles will give him every excuse under the sun, plausible and implausible, as to why he shouldn't, and his dad will debate them even as he starts to wash the dishes himself. Sometimes they'll watch the episode _The Colbert Report_ that they missed and they'll laugh, or sometimes his dad will run to the store to buy more milk cause Stiles drank it all.

It's disturbingly normal, to say the least, for a family that has been grieving a dead mother for eleven years. Normal, at least, until evening rolls around.

 _That's_ when all the crap they've been trying to push down, all the hurt and loneliness that's piled up over the course of eleven long years, _that's_ when it surfaces. At that point, they find it hard to look at each other, and they often separate wordlessly -- his dad will go to the bar or to the station or anywhere that's not home, and sometimes Stiles will just sit in the dark.

Most of the time, he just sits in the dark. That way he can imagine that she's sitting there with him.

And when the sixteenth of March rolls around for another relentless year of pent-up grief and cloying gloom, things aren't that much different. Stiles' father leaves at about seven o'clock, and Stiles doesn't know _where_ he's going, but he knows he'll be gone, and he knows it'll be dark. He's sixteen years old, and he'll be stuck in the dark, for the eleventh year in a row, wondering what it would have been like to have a mom.

He never cries, he never pities himself. He just wonders. He's just curious.

He doesn't have the energy to be curious this year.

He doesn't realize he's in his Jeep until he's halfway down the street.

\--

It's not the tallest hill in Beacon Hills, and it's probably not the nicest one, either. There's probably a bigger, taller, more beautiful hill somewhere, with more green grass and a cute little tree at the top, but Stiles likes this hill, the one that's cool beneath him when he lays down, the one that has the odd patch of dirt here and there to give it character.

It's not yet July, but he can imagine the fireworks, and if he thinks hard enough, he can imagine what her face looked like every fourth of July. How she seemed so young, almost like a child herself.

He smiles to himself. He's not sad, he just doesn't have the energy to be sad. He's exhausted, and he doesn't know why. It's not that late, he hasn't done anything, he's been sleeping and eating, but he just feels so _spent_. He's gotten used to this feeling, and he wonders if he should worry.

He wonders if he would worry anyway.

But the sky is a dark navy, with wisps of smoky gray where some clouds are hanging overhead, not menacing enough to warrant rain but reassuring in the cool night of early spring, fresh air surrounding him, comforting.

That's why he loves this hill so much. It's the closest to Heaven that he'll ever want to be.

He leans against the hood of his Jeep, and he wants to be angry, or feel invaded, or at least be _surprised_ when he feels Derek lean against the hood next to him.

Neither of them say anything for what feels like an eternity. Stiles is struck that his loss must seem so... _slight_ compared to Derek's. Stiles lost his mother, but Derek lost his entire family, and he _blames_ himself for it. All that was left was Peter and Laura, and where are they now?

Derek's the only one left. Derek gets it.

"I only spent five summers with her, you know." Stiles says after a minute, his voice clear and deep and calm. He looks at the sky, empty and so full of potential, like it's begging for light and sound and excitement. "But I can remember every time she brought me up here. In bits and pieces, maybe, but every time."

Derek doesn't respond, but he's looking openly at the sky, just like Stiles. He's imagining it, just like he is, and Stiles is touched, almost. He can't help it.

The werewolf swallows. "I'm not going to say I'm sorry." he says quietly. "I'm not going to patronize you like that. I've known what that feels like." And that means a lot, all of it, and Stiles lets it sink in.

He chuckles wryly. "And why not?"  
  
He wonders if it was the right thing to ask, because Derek is silent for a long time, longer than Stiles is comfortable with. They're close enough that their arms are brushing, and when Derek speaks, he sounds mildly wounded. " _Because_ , Stiles," he says, nothing but self-resentment and disgust, "I don't know when it happened, but part of me likes you, and that matters to me. I would never patronize someone I care about.

"It's against everything a dog is." he adds at the end, and his voice is empty, like he's not sure why he said it. But he did, and Stiles elbows him lightly. He's honestly moved -- part of him, at least -- but he doesn't know how to say it.

So he says something else instead. "You're the only person I've been up here with since she died." He tells Derek. "I'm always alone."

That holds more weight than he thought it would. It holds a lot more weight. Derek elbows him back, just as gently, and Stiles knows he understands. He smiles, just a little bit.

They stand there, leaning against the hood of the Jeep, for what seems like hours, staring at the spots of light and the slow-moving clouds and the space above them like it'll be gone and never come back. Stiles thinks that would be fitting. He can't speak for Derek.

Derek, though, isn't happy. Stiles has become used to the fact that Derek will never be happy, so when Derek turns and puts both of his hands on the Jeep's hood, on either side of Stiles, he doesn't flinch or jump. Derek's stare is firm, but not angry, just... well, he can't explain it.

It's the kind of look that you only give someone who _gets_ it.

Derek kisses him, and it's sweeter than normal, a whole lot more gentle and a whole lot more inviting. It only lasts a few seconds, and he doesn't expect it to last any longer than it does, but when Derek pulls away, Stiles keeps his eyes firmly trained on the werewolf's chest, not looking up.

He crosses his arms tightly around his chest. He can't help it -- it's a reflex. "So why did you do that?" he asks quietly. Derek doesn't answer. "Why have you been doing this? What _is_ this, anyway?"

He doesn't want an answer, and he knows Derek won't give him one, but he needs it to be out in the open air, with all the oxygen and all the remorse. That's where it belongs -- for now, at least.

But Derek answers him. "It would take me years to sort it out, you know." he says. "And even longer to tell you. Guess the question is if you'd be willing to wait."  


Stiles chuckles, but he keeps his gaze down. "Have you _seen_ my attention span?" It's a definitive no, and Derek knows it, had been expecting it, so he hums understandingly. He takes his hands off the hood and puts them on Stiles' waist instead, and kisses him again.

Just as slow, just as sweet, just as unexpected to the point that it scares Stiles just a bit, scares him like anything in his life has when he's looked over the lip of a chasm -- when his mother was sick, when his mother died, and now _this_. When he realizes that part of him is starting to trust Derek and that'll never end well for either of them.

But he kisses back because he _likes_ it, and it makes him feel a whole lot less drained. This stupid werewolf and his stupid werewolf pack and his stupid bite and his stupid loyalty, his stupid dedication to a whole lot of things that Stiles respects, morally and intellectually and emotionally and... _this_.

Derek pulls away from him and smirks, his eyes warm with something that Stiles has never seen before. "Then I guess you'll never know." he tells Stiles, and his voice isn't condescending, or mocking, but... comforting. Because he _knows_ that both of them want it that way.

And Stiles looks at him finally, and he smiles.

He's telling the truth when he says, "Well. I think I can live with that."


End file.
